Archive for the ‘Me Myself’ Category
July 13 2010
I’m usually last to get ready when we go out. Our strategy has always been that I get the kids dressed first, then J takes over. He’ll squeeze 6 successively smaller feet into socks and shoes while I’m fretting over finding something suitable to wear without holes or stains. When his task is completed, I’m expected to be done as well. In other words, I don’t have a lot of time.
Since the window blinds in my bedroom are kept open during the day, I change in the bathroom. Before the first piece of clothing is slipped on, there’s a knock on the door. “Come on!”, Buzz calls.
I slide and button appropriate articles. Deodorant is applied hurriedly. I think about fixing the mop on top of my head. A few drawers are opened and scoured through in search of a hair clip before I catch the tiny patter of footsteps pacing down the hall.
“Are we going yet?”, I hear Jedi ask J.
“As soon as Mommy’s done”, I hear J sigh in return.
“How long until she’s done?”, he gripes impatiently.
“I’m almost done!”, I yell back.
Forget doing my hair, I just slip it back in the usual ponytail. I’ve given up on makeup. If I remember, I’ll swipe some chapstick on my lips in the car later. I barely have time to brush my teeth before Abby’s banging on the door again. “Come on, Mommy!”, Buzz repeats with more urgency. “I need to pee!”, Jedi whines. Fine, I’m done. 10 minutes, tops, from start to finish. It’s a good thing I’m not high maintenance.
July 08 2010
My Compaq Mini netbook was sitting on the kitchen counter behind me while I poured the kids each a cup of milk. I turned around in time to see Buzz dangling it’s slim frame precariously over the edge. The next few seconds were in excruciatingly slow motion.
“NOOOOOOO!”, I lunged not quick enough. It fell with a thud to the floor.
My life flashed before my eyes as Buzz darted from the room in a panic. This netbook was my gift from J this past Christmas. Since then, we’ve been inseparable. I write on it. I read on it. It calms me down during rough afternoons and comforts me on long days. It helps me feel connected. Thanks to twitter and the comments left here, both of which I check from my netbook, I don’t feel so much like the lone adult in a child’s world. It keeps me sane. It’s my precious. I would be lost without it.
It can’t be broken. What would I do if it’s broken? Oh my God, WHAT WOULD I DO?
A thin piece on the back, which I assume was important, had come undone so I immediately pieced it back together again a la Humpty Dumpty. I sat it back on the counter and prayed. “Please turn on. Please turn on. Please turn on. I swear I’ll be good, just PLEASE TURN ON.”
I flipped it to it’s on position and waited. It wasn’t making any funny sounds, that’s a good sign I hoped. Then, I saw the beautiful blue light, the signal of life, and my heart did a happy dance. Start Windows normally?, it asked. Oh yes, please.
My precious.
June 28 2010
My birthday was yesterday. In honor of the occasion I have a confession to make.
It’s a big one.
It might get me kicked out of the mom club, if there were such a thing as a mom club.
I don’t like coffee.
I’ve never been to Starbucks. I wouldn’t know what to order if I were to go. We have a coffee maker, but it’s sitting on a kitchen shelf gathering dust. I’ve had a cappuccino here or there, made from instant powder bought at the grocery store, but it isn’t something I crave. The warmth is soothing on brisk, early mornings, but I could do the same with hot chocolate. And hot chocolate comes with marshmallows.
I feel like as an aging parent, though, especially a mom of 3 little kids, I’m expected to drink coffee. That it’s weird not to. Like the commercials with a woman in slippers and bedhead, eyes still heavy with sleep. “Don’t talk to me until I’ve had my coffee.” I’m supposed to revel in the aroma and sigh heavily into that initial sip of mocha. That first cup, an instant transformation into supermom.
Maybe that’s why I’ve never earned my superpowers.
I feel like a fraud.
A 31 year old fraud.
Man, I’m old.
June 24 2010
We all have an area we excel in more than another. This pertains to every area of life, parenthood is not an exception. Some enjoy getting their hands dirty while others would much rather sit on the sidelines taking pictures than burn our bums on a slide that’s been sitting in the scorching sun all day.
J is fun. He likes to play. He’s good at it when he’s on his game. Kids that he’s never met before gravitate to him, because I guess he just radiates a sense of a good time. When we go to a playground, he’s the one climbing amongst the little ones, like a kid himself. For the most part, however, he sets them free.
I, on the other hand, would rather sit on a bench, away from the brunt of the action. I take pictures as a coping mechanism. I enjoy the breeze. I try not to hover over my kids as they play because I worry too much. I’m trapped in my head, the what if’s make me flustered and jittery. My brain and the possibilities of what could happen never turn off. I’m more focused on the mess and chaos and making sure every foot lands safely. I have to force myself to play instead of fret.
It’s been a long road towards accepting our natural roles. I would like to say we make a good team, J and I. That we balance each other out. That I’ve spared my kids a knock or two by watching so intently, anyway. In the end, though, I simply feel like a party pooper. I’m like the old lady, shaking her cane, screeching at the young’uns to keep it down in there.
June 08 2010
I’ve been known to make fun of my mom for her poor memory. If I tell her something today, I’ll most likely have to tell her again tomorrow. She’s going on 65 years old, though, she’s allowed a few gaps. There’s a lot of years there to remember. I’m barely over 30, what’s my excuse?
I blame the kids.
Last Sunday, my mom asked if I could buy her a newspaper. They weren’t going out that day and she likes to skim through the coupons. She said she’ll pick it up on Thursday, when she has to watch Jedi and Abby while I take Buzz to his speech class.
On Thursday, I remind my mom that I have her paper. “Don’t let me forget to give it to you when we come back”, I told her. Which is kind of like the blind leading the blind. She didn’t have to, but she insisted on reimbursing the $2 the paper cost before we left.
A short time later, we return from Buzz’s speech class. I sit and have a cold drink with my parents as Abby jumps in my arms. We watch a few minutes of television and talk about how things went. Goodbyes are said. It feels like I’m forgetting something, but I can’t place what. Hours after they’ve left for home, I look over and realize.
Not only did she pay me $2, but I still have her paper.
Watch out Bernie Madoff, there’s a new scam artist in town. Now if I can just remember where I put the money.
